The Moroccan Girl

by Charles Cumming

  “I know that.”

  “I said that we’d been dating for about six months. They’re going to expect us to share a cabin.”

  “I know that, too.” She shot Carradine a mischievous smile.

  “It’s just that I don’t think they’re going to believe that I’m going out with a born-again Christian.…”

  It was awkward broaching the subject. He wished that he had kept his mouth shut. Bartok put him out of his misery.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You don’t have to be so English about it. Do I look like the kind of woman who would wait until marriage to sleep with you? We can share a cabin and that is fine.”

  Carradine spent the next thirty seconds wondering what Bartok had meant by the word “fine.” He did not want to get into a longer discussion about how they should behave in front of Patrick and Eleanor. He assumed that Bartok would play her part convincingly and that he would not have to change his own behavior too drastically. It was common in espionage to role-play the part of a couple, though Carradine had never written about an operation of that type in his fiction. As a consequence, he had not had cause to think too deeply about the mechanics of such a deceit. He was sure that body language would play a part, as well as the appearance of a certain easefulness in Bartok’s company. But perhaps he was overthinking things and there was no need to be concerned.

  Rounding a corner at the end of the street, Carradine sighted the tops of masts and a modern, open-air café on a terrace overlooking the marina. He could hear the ping of halyards, the cry of seagulls on the wind. A man was sitting at one of the tables, deep in conversation on a mobile phone. His back was turned to them and he appeared to be in a state of agitation. It was not clear if he was a customer or a member of staff who had arrived early for work. On closer inspection, he turned out to be Patrick Lang.

  “I am telling you…” Carradine could hear snatches of his conversation. “They’re arriving this morning. At any moment. We had a text message last night…”

  Bartok took Carradine’s hand, pulling him back, sensing the danger. At that moment Patrick turned in his chair and saw that they were walking toward him. Lowering his voice, he quickly ended the call and stood up to greet them.

  “There you are! I was just talking about you.”

  He looked flustered, as if he had been caught in the act of lying. Carradine wondered who the hell he had been speaking to.

  “Hello,” he said. “Sorry we’re early.”

  Patrick slipped the phone into his back pocket and ran a hand through his hair as he nodded at Bartok. A pair of sunglasses hung from the collar of his canary yellow polo shirt. He seemed distracted and strung out in a way that was completely out of character.

  “Yes,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my text.”

  “We lost yet another phone.” Carradine knew that it was now too late to turn back. If Patrick had alerted Hulse or the Russians to their arrival, they were finished. “This is my girlfriend,” he said. “The famous Lilia.”

  Patrick recovered his equilibrium and made a spectacle of falling for the Bartok charm, kissing the top of her hand as if the ghost of Cary Grant were indeed living inside him.

  “Delighted to meet you,” he said, offering to take her bag. “Kit said you were very beautiful and he didn’t misinform. What happened to the phone?”

  Carradine explained that the mobile had been stolen and apologized for not confirming their arrival. Patrick waved away his apologies and ordered three cappuccinos from the waitress. His increasingly relaxed manner made Carradine feel that at any moment they were going to be surrounded by Moroccan police.

  “So you’re Hungarian?”

  “Born and bred,” Bartok replied. If she was wary of him, she did not show it. Instead, Carradine was treated to a twenty-minute master class in deception as Bartok spoke of her childhood in Budapest, her work as a private tutor in London, her lifelong fascination with boats and the ocean.

  “When Kit told me that you had invited us to come with you on your beautiful yacht, it was the happiest moment,” she said, touching Patrick’s wrist and speaking with a tenderness that almost convinced Carradine she was telling the truth. “We have changed our flights to go home from Gibraltar. You are so generous. Both of you so kind.”

  They ate breakfast undisturbed. Carradine concluded that Patrick had been speaking to a member of his family on the telephone and that there was nothing to worry about. Having finished their food, Patrick suggested that they walk down to the boat where Eleanor was waiting for them. Carradine settled the bill, shouldered the bags and followed him out of the café. At no point did Bartok shoot Carradine a look of amused complicity or appear to take any pleasure in their shared deceit. She had dropped into the character of Lilia Hudak solely for the purposes of survival and would play the role only for as long as it was required of her.

  “We’ll get you settled in, then you’ll have to go and see immigration,” Patrick announced. They were walking down a gangplank toward a network of pontoons at the entrance to the marina. A young couple with two small children passed them in the opposite direction, nodding at Carradine as he took in the sights of the marina. Patrick pointed ahead at Atalanta, sixty feet of teak and fiberglass nestled between two gigantic Qatari-registered gin palaces with crew in pressed white uniforms scrubbing the decks. She was a thing of beauty, gleaming in the early morning sun. A red ensign was flying from the stern, rippling in the slight breeze. Bartok gasped as she stepped on board, walking across a narrow gangplank connecting the yacht to the pontoon.

  “Extraordinary,” she said.

  Steering wheels were positioned on the port and starboard side of a cockpit protected by a large canvas roof. A hatch at the far end led into the interior of the yacht. Eleanor was sitting on one side of the master cabin at a wooden table spread with the remnants of a classic British breakfast: triangles of half-eaten toast; pots of Marmite and Oxford marmalade; miniature packets of Corn Flakes and All-Bran. It was like a glimpse of home, but for the second time that morning, Carradine had the sudden, giddy sense that they were walking into a trap.

  “Look who I found,” Patrick called out with forced cheeriness as he came down the steps. “They were early.”

  Eleanor was dressed in dark blue linen trousers and a Breton sweater. A pair of pajamas and a dressing gown with a White Company label were draped over the back of the leather seat beside her. She removed a pair of half-moon spectacles. Just as Patrick had seemed flustered and evasive when they had first spotted him at the café, there was also a palpable change in Eleanor’s demeanor. She looked tired, giving off an air of impatient agitation. Carradine wondered if there had been an early morning row.

  “Hello,” she said, shaking his hand without moving closer to offer a kiss. “This must be the mysterious Lilia.”

  Carradine was certain that he caught a flash of wariness in Eleanor’s first glance at Bartok. Did she know the truth about her? Bartok remained in character, smiling beatifically. What a beautiful boat. So kind of you to invite us. Was it Carradine’s imagination or was Eleanor looking for a chink in her armor, for some tiny piece of evidence that would convince her that their seemingly innocent voluntary crew were fugitives on the run from the law? Standing in the cabin, watching the two women becoming awkwardly and hesitatingly acquainted, he had to tell himself to remain calm; that whatever circumspection he detected in Eleanor’s mood was most likely the aftermath of a row or the natural wariness of a wife who was protective of her husband and all-too-aware that Lilia Hudak was a beautiful young woman.

  “Your boat’s not at all what I expected,” he said, setting his bag on the ground and taking in the state-of-the-art navigation equipment, the shelves of Everyman books, the wood-lined passages leading stern and aft.

  “She does us very well,” Patrick replied as Eleanor stepped past him.

  “My husband and I sleep up here,” she said, indicating two separate cabins—one in the bow, another on the ports
ide—both with unmade beds. It was as though she was providing a visual demonstration of the tensions that existed in the marriage.

  “It’s all so modern,” Bartok observed, plainly trying to think of something to fill the silence.

  “Oh yes, Patrick likes all the mod cons,” Eleanor replied coolly.

  She showed them a bathroom on the starboard side before turning back toward the main cabin. “You’ll be sleeping here,” she said, leading them through a well-stocked galley toward a master cabin in the stern. There was a large double bed beneath the cockpit and a frosted glass door leading to what appeared to be an en-suite bathroom. This would be the room Carradine was to share with Bartok for the next three days. “There’s a shower, lots of hot water. Hopefully you’ll be comfortable.”

  “Very,” said Carradine, feeling simultaneously as though he had won the jackpot and yet stumbled on one of the most awkward romantic entanglements of his life.

  “This is how the TV works,” Eleanor continued, banging a button on the bedside table with noticeable force. A flat-screen television rose up from a cupboard on the galley side of the cabin. “State of the art. Apparently.”

  Perhaps Eleanor was annoyed that she had been obliged to give up the cabin to her guests. The channel was set to Spanish Eurosport. Cyclists wearing Lycra and aerodynamic helmets were bombing around a velodrome.

  “So why don’t you settle in? We’ll see you when we see you.”

  The two women exchanged wary smiles as Eleanor turned to leave.

  “Lovely,” said Bartok. “Thank you so much.”

  Carradine peered through a porthole. He could see Patrick walking back in the direction of the café, again speaking agitatedly on his mobile phone. Who the hell was he talking to? A mistress? His daughter? Hulse?

  “Nice place,” said Bartok, unaware of Carradine’s disquiet.

  “Very,” he said, closing the door of the cabin. He sat on one side of the double bed. “Nice digs.”

  The commentary on the cycling was loud enough to disguise their conversation.

  “Is she OK?” Bartok asked, nodding in the direction of the main cabin.

  “I think they had a row,” he whispered.

  “Right.” She walked to the far side of the room, looking out of the same porthole. Carradine assumed that Patrick was now too far away to be spotted. “You are a very clever man, Kit Carradine.”

  “Me?” he said. “Why?”

  “Finding us such a beautiful way of escape.”

  Bartok turned to look at him. She touched the ceiling of the cabin and the padded wall beside her, as though trying to acclimatize herself to the latest in a long line of strange, impermanent homes. Quite apart from his concerns about Patrick, Carradine was conscious that they still needed to clear immigration. He took out his passport and placed it on the bed.

  “Shall we go together or is it easier for you to do it alone?”

  At first it looked as though Bartok had not understood what he was asking. Then she nodded and sat on the bed beside him.

  “I want to go with you,” she said.

  Suddenly she leaned forward, kissing him. The intensity of the kiss, the unexpectedness of it, stripped Carradine of any notion that she might have been acting out of practical necessity. The softness of it was so pleasurable that he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close against him. No part of him believed that Bartok was engaged in a performance, that she was trying to carry off an illusion of romance. He could sense the desire in her, the excitement, just as he could feel his own.

  “What was that for?” he said.

  “For everything,” she replied, kissing him again, gently and tenderly, on the cheek. “Now let’s go and do what we have to do.”

  36

  They walked along a metalled road toward a group of prefabricated buildings overlooking the entrance to the marina. A tram passed overhead, moving toward the bridge connecting Mellah to the old city of Rabat. A television was visible through the window of a deserted restaurant showing a Moroccan news report on the siege in Warsaw. Carradine knocked on the window in the hope of being allowed inside but there was no answer. It was not yet nine o’clock and already very hot. Bartok had put on a hat as protection against the sun.

  “It was never supposed to be like this,” she said, gesturing toward the television. The picture had frozen on a bird’s-eye view of the Sejm, which appeared to be on fire. “Large-scale attacks. Innocent people killed as a consequence. These people are no different to terrorists, to the Chechens or ISIS.”

  Carradine took her hand.

  “If they arrest me or refuse to let me leave Morocco,” she said, “I want you to go on without me.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I am serious, Kit.” She stopped and turned to him, touching his face. Carradine wondered if she was acting for the benefit of anybody who happened to be watching: a passing immigration officer; Eleanor on the deck of Atalanta. “They might say my entry stamp is too old. They might want to know why I have been in Morocco for such a long time.”

  “When did you arrive?” Carradine asked. He had not thought to look at the dates on the Hudak passport.

  “Five months ago.”

  It didn’t seem too long. Surely she could talk her way around the problem?

  “Just say you’ve been recovering from an illness and I flew out from London to fetch you.”

  “They might not believe me. Five months is a long time.”

  Carradine was concerned by her sudden lack of confidence. It was the first time that he had seen Bartok display any sign of self-doubt.

  “Just tell a version of the truth. Say you rented a flat in Marrakech. I came out to appear at the literary festival. We were offered the chance to leave on a boat owned by a couple who like my books. Simple.”

  She squeezed his hand as though she were trying to convince herself that Carradine was right.

  “OK,” she said. They began walking again. The customs buildings were less than a hundred meters away. “If you say so.”

  He suddenly remembered their argument in the car the day before.

  “Is this one of your tricks?” he asked.

  Bartok bristled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the car yesterday, you engineered an argument. Are you genuinely worried about this or just trying to give that impression to anyone who might be watching?”

  She let go of his hand. Carradine realized that he had made a mistake. He had questioned the authenticity of her behavior just at the moment when she had decided to show him a more vulnerable side of her nature.

  “I’m worried,” she said. “I’m worried all the time.”

  He had glimpsed the state of permanent apprehension in which she lived. She disguised it with good humor and bonhomie but the months on the run had taken their toll.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, annoyed to have misjudged the situation. He held her waist. “We’re going to get through this. They don’t know who you are. They won’t recognize you. It’s too soon for anyone in London to worry that I’ve not been in touch. They won’t be waiting for us.”

  “You don’t know that. You can’t guarantee that.”

  * * *

  The passport office was a nondescript wooden shed not much larger than Carradine’s room at the riad. Three uniformed officials were seated at desks covered in ashtrays and paperwork. Cigarette smoke hung in the air; there was an absence of natural light. Carradine knocked on the open door and walked in. Bartok removed her hat as the closest, and youngest, of the immigration officers looked up from his desk.

  “Oui?”

  Carradine explained in French that they were staying on board Atalanta, the Oyster 575 moored in the marina. The captain, Patrick Lang, and his wife, Eleanor, had already passed through immigration. Carradine was their friend, a British citizen traveling with his girlfriend, Lilia Hudak, a Hungarian. They wanted to clear passport control and to set off for Gibraltar.

/>   The immigration officer looked at them carefully. He stared at Bartok. Carradine was certain that she had been recognized. As if to confirm this, the official called out to his colleague at a desk on the far side of the shed.

  “Mahmud.”

  An older man with a heavy beard, wearing the same light blue uniform, beckoned Carradine and Bartok forward.

  “Where are you coming from, please?” he asked in English.

  “From Marrakech,” Bartok replied.

  The man looked at her with an expression of distaste, as if he had expected Carradine to answer the question.

  “And what were you doing in Marrakech?”

  “My girlfriend hasn’t been very well,” Carradine replied. He was aware that he was lying to a Moroccan official who had the power to arrest and imprison him. “She picked up a virus in London. She was recuperating in Marrakech.”

  A chair scraped back behind him, the grind of metal on the hard wooden floor. The younger official who had spoken to them at the door stood up and walked toward them. He settled in a seat beside Mahmud and stared at Carradine, seemingly with the deliberate intention of unsettling him.

  “What does it mean, ‘picked up virus’?”

  Bartok took half a step forward and explained what Carradine had said, this time in French. Mahmud again looked at her as though it was beneath his dignity to have formal dealings with a woman.

  “You feel sick now?” he asked.

  “I am fine.” Bartok produced a relaxed, summery smile. Carradine was boiled by the heat. There was no air-conditioning in the hut, only a fan in the corner of the room which was making no difference to the quality of the thick, smoky air.

  “And you?”

  Mahmud had directed the question at Carradine. For a reason that he was afterwards not able to explain, Carradine reached into the back pocket of his trousers and took out his passport. Intending to hand it across the desk, he instead managed to lose his grip on it. The passport sailed over the desk and fell to the ground behind the two officials.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed. “Sorry.”